


No Such Thing as Perfect

by mldrgrl



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, First Dates, Fluff, Humor, Pre-Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-10-01 16:06:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20330665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mldrgrl/pseuds/mldrgrl
Summary: Mulder and Scully's first date.  A sequel to A Few Thousand Plus One: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18546286





	No Such Thing as Perfect

He’s driving her nuts. Not because he’s doing something, but because he’s not doing something. It’s been nearly six weeks since he made the insinuation that he was going to ask her out on a date, but there’s been no further mention of it since he brought it up. More importantly, it’s been nearly six weeks since she insinuated she would say yes, and he’s done nothing about it.

She could tell she surprised the both of them by agreeing to a date. She would admit, though not out loud and certainly not to Mulder, that she was curious about what a date with him would be like. He was right, it had been so long since she’d been out with a man she could barely remember when it was, let alone what the guy’s name was. Ron?

So why then, nearly six weeks later, was she still waiting for him to make his move? Was he not as genuine as he seemed? Was he waiting for a perfect moment? They’d been in town for the last four weekends straight, a record for them, and they were coming up on another. She can’t handle the anticipation anymore and she’s a little tired of the monotony of housework and errands.

They’re shutting down on Friday evening, he’s already got his shirtsleeves rolled up and his tie loosened. She packs up her laptop slowly and takes her time with the straps of her bag to work up the nerve. Finally, she takes the few steps needed to stand in front of his desk and taps her nails lightly against the empty space in front of his nameplate.

“Mulder,” she says. “What are you doing this weekend?”

“Might play some basketball at the rec center. The Gunmen are having a hack-off at some point and I’ve been told I could have the honor of adjudicating. Wanna come?”

“You owe me a date.” 

His eyes grow wide at first and his forehead wrinkles as he lifts his brows, but then he smiles so broadly that the apples of his cheeks become suddenly prominent and his eyes turn into twinkling crescent moons.

“Scully, are you asking me out?”

“You’re the one who asked, I’m just holding you to it.”

“Oh, I see. It’s about accountability then?”

“And trying to get it over with so we can move on with our lives.”

“Oh.” His smile falls flat and her stomach drops as she realizes how harsh that sounded.

“I don’t mean it like that. Only that it’s been six weeks since you asked and...I thought you would have planned something by now. Or are you going to wait another seven years?”

“No, I guess I just wasn’t quite sure you took me seriously.”

“Were you serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

“So…”

“So...I’ll pick you up tomorrow night? How’s seven?”

“Seven works.”

“Then it’s a date?”

As bold as she was to bring it up, she’s suddenly hesitant again. A date means trying on a dozen outfits and finding something wrong with every one of them. A date means carefully selecting the right perfume. A date means spending extra time on her hair and make-up. A date means butterflies and expectations. Hopefully. If it’s done right. A date means looking at the man who’s her closest friend, and at this point, maybe even her only friend, a little differently.

“Yes,” she says, slowly. “It’s a date.”

*****

After a sleepless night, she regrets bringing up the date at all. The continued anticipation of when he would ask was less stressful than the anticipation of the actual date. She tossed and turned thinking about how things would go, what they would talk about, what it would mean going forward. And god, what was she going to wear?

She’s at the mall in the morning before it even opens, waiting impatiently at the doors of a Macy’s as the manager fumbles with the keys. She heads straight to her usual section of pantsuits galore out of force of habit, but has to remind herself she’s not shopping for work, she’s shopping for a date. Contemporary fashion is distressing, all halter tops and paneled skirts, leather pants and bare midriffs. Date or no date, it isn’t her.

She tries on what feels like a hundred dresses and finds flaws in almost all of them. Too revealing, too tight, too baggy, too long, too fancy, too casual, too young, too old. Finally, finally she finds one that she deems acceptable. It’s navy blue, so dark it’s nearly black, a-line and sleeveless, with a simple open lace design across the collar. She even finds a sweater to match and she knows she has a pair of heels at home that will work with it. It’s a little shorter than she’d like, but at least the hem falls below her fingertips when she drops her arms to her sides. Most importantly, it looks good on her and she looks like a woman on a date, not a FBI agent.

Back home from shopping, she’s surprised that it’s not even lunchtime. Time seems to drag by, but then again, a watched clock never boils. Or something like that. In an effort to pass time she does laundry, she cleans, she changes her sheets. Finally, it’s late enough to start getting ready.

In the shower, while she’s shaving her legs, it occurs to her that she’s shaving her legs for Mulder. No, she tells herself, she’s shaving her legs for the dress she bought. The dress she bought for her date. With Mulder. She bought the dress for her date with Mulder, therefore she’s shaving her legs for Mulder. She knicks herself twice, distracted by the idea of Mulder noticing and appreciating her smooth calves and bare thighs.

The lotion she slathers on later, the perfume she dabs behind her ears and on her wrists, the rose shade of lipstick, the hint of blush, the exposed mole above her lip, the untamed freckles, the soft curl in her hair, is all for Mulder.

It comes as a surprise to her that he’s early. Only ten minutes before seven, but still, he’s early. Hes never early. She’s standing before the full length mirror on the back of her bedroom door when he knocks and she has to place a hand on her abdomen to remember to breathe.

And there he is, when she opens the door, in a dark suit and a plain silk tie, looking like he just stepped off of a GQ magazine cover. He smiles at her and it sends a nervous flutter across her stomach.

“I know you said no flowers,” he says, presenting her with a small potted bonsai tree. “But, I couldn’t show up empty handed.”

“Oh…” The gift almost makes her laugh, which she finds oddly calming.

“The guy at the store said it’s easy to take care of. Regular sunlight and water is all it needs.”

“That sounds pretty standard.”

“You look amazing.”

“Oh…” She looks down at herself, but the plant she’s holding is now in the way. The nervous flutter comes back though she knows it’s ridiculous. After all, she wanted him to notice.

“I got us in at an Italian place a few blocks away. 7:30. We can walk there.”

“Nonna’s?”

“That’s it.”

“I’ve passed by it many times. It looks nice.”

“But not too nice. Casual dining with a nice ambiance and two and a half stars. I spent the morning in the Barnes & Noble cafe with a Zagat’s Guide.”

“Okay, well let me just...find a place for this and I’ll get my sweater.”

She brings the little bonsai tree over to the bay window and clears a spot on her desk for it. Mulder stays by the door, his hands in his pockets. She glances at him on her way to the bedroom to grab her sweater and her purse and he smiles at her. She wonders how he can look so calm and collected right now when she feels like her nerves are tangled into knots. She pauses, takes a deep breath, and tells herself there’s nothing to be nervous about.

“Ready?” he asks, holding his elbow out to her like an escort as she comes back into the room.

Dear god, no, she thinks. “Ready,” she says.

*****

If Scully believed in signs from the universe, and she didn’t, but if she did, a lost reservation might be a sign from the universe that they should end the date before it begins.

“I’m sorry sir,” the hostess says. “I don’t have a reservation for a Mulder.”

“I called today, around one. 7:30. For two.”

“Our next opening is for 9:15.”

She can tell that something sarcastic is rising in Mulder’s throat and she takes his elbow to stop him before he says something she’ll regret. “It’s okay,” she says. “We’ll go somewhere else.”

“I’d like to speak to the manager,” Mulder tells the hostess.

“No, we don’t,” Scully interjects, pulling on Mulder’s arm. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” he argues, but follows her out the door. “They can’t just lose people’s reservations.”

“Well, they did.”

“What do you want to do?”

Good question. She looks past Mulder down the block. There aren’t many restaurant options on this side of her neighborhood. It’s a quieter area, mostly townhomes and a handful of bodegas. There is a French place another three blocks or so ahead, but it’s not one she was ever interested in. They’ve already walked all this way though and they’ve both gone to a lot of trouble for this.

“Um,” she says, stalling to make up her mind. “We can...there’s another restaurant a few blocks…”

“Do we need a reservation?”

“I don’t know.”

Mulder scratches the back of his head for a few moments. He looks longingly at Nonna’s, like it was something he’d had his heart set on, but then his expression changes and he drops his hand and smiles at her. 

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s give it a try.”

*****

Deep down, they both know it’s a mistake the minute they walk in the door of the next restaurant. The ma î tre d’, with his haughty attitude, gives it away. He peers down his beak-like nose at his book of reservations and sniffs disapprovingly before he rather reluctantly finds an opening and leads them to a table.

The menu is in French and prices are unlisted, which says a lot. As soon as she’s seated and she’s had a moment to give it more than a cursory glance, she feels a whole new kind of nervous flutter in the pit of her stomach.

“Mulder,” she whispers, leaning towards him a bit. “We should go.”

“We just got here.”

“I know, but…”

“What do you think a ‘ tartiflette’ is?”

“I don’t think we should get anything that doesn’t sound familiar.”

“I know what escargot is, but I don’t think I’ll be having that.”

“We can do this another time.”

“Are you sure? We’re here and no other plans for the evening.”

Scully hesitates and takes a few glances from the menu to the four corners of the restaurant. It’s too fancy for her comfort, unnecessarily gilded, chandeliers all over the place, impressionist paintings cluttering the walls. It doesn’t feel right for a date with Mulder.

“Madame, Monsieur,” a waiter materializes between them and startles her. “May I get you started this evening with something to drink?”

“Scully?” Mulder asks.

“Um…” She hates how flustered she feels. She fumbles the menu, turning it over and back to stall for time.

“You like Merlot, right?” Mulder says.

“Yes.”

“We’ll take a bottle of Merlot,” Mulder tells the waiter.

*****

She’s trying as hard as she can to recall a single conversation that she and Mulder have had that didn’t involve work, but she can’t. Sips from her glass of wine and tries to think of something to say. Oh, but there was a conversation once, on that rock, in the lake. They’d talked about Moby Dick and Mulder had said he’d wanted a peg leg.

“Earth to Scully,” Mulder says.

“Sorry?”

“I asked if you had decided on an entree.”

“Oh, um…I wasn’t even thinking about that.”

“What were you thinking about?”

“Are you still interested in a peg leg?”

“Exactly what are you proposing?”

“I just remembered that time on the lake when the boat sank and we were stuck on that rock.”

Mulder takes a look around and then takes a sip of his own wine. “Hopefully a cold, wet rock in the middle of a cryptid-inhabited lake isn’t comparable to this place.”

“There’s no such thing as cryptids,” she answers with a smile.

“Ugh!” Mulder feigns distress and slaps a hand over his heart.

“I was only trying to think of a time and place where we had a real conversation.”

“We have a thousand real conversations every day.”

“You know what I mean. Not about work.”

He scratches the back of his neck for a few moments and contemplates the menu. “Bellefleur, Oregon,” he says. “You were worried about those mosquito bites and it was raining and the electricity was out. I told you about my sister.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Does that qualify as a real conversation?”

“It does.” There’s a brief silence and she averts her eyes for a few moments back to the menu. “Mulder?”

“Hm?”

“Tell me about the Mongolian Death Worm.”

“The locals call it  olgoi-khorkhoi,” he says, and she puts down her menu to listen.

*****

They both order what they’re relatively certain is chicken. The waiter sniffs disapprovingly when they pass on appetizers, but she isn’t interested in pate or anything tartare and she knows that Mulder has an aversion to seafood. It actually catches her off guard a little that she knows that about him and she can’t remember how. It’s not an allergy, of that she’s sure, he just doesn’t like it. 

“Arcadia Falls,” she says.

“What about it?”

“When we went to dinner at the Shroeder’s, Cami made tuna noodle casserole.”

“The things I do to be polite.” 

“You don’t like fish.”

“Nope.”

“Why do I know that?”

“We probably talked about it at some point.”

“Huh.”

“I don’t like beets either. Or coconut.”

“I don’t like figs.”

“No one likes figs.”

“Or raspberries.”

“Really? Raspberries?”

“It’s not the flavor, it’s the texture. It’s all...bumpy.”

“True. So, blackberries are out as well?”

“Never had one.”

“Huh.”

When the food arrives, they both look at their plates and try to disguise their disappointment, at least until the water leaves and then Mulder leans closer to her to whisper.

“I thought I ordered a chicken, not a canary.”

She chuckles. It’s the smallest portion of anything she’s ever seen. Maybe they should have considered the escargot to start, at the very least the snails are cooked and not fish.

“Bon appetit,” he says.

“You too.”

*****

He convinces her to share a charcuterie board when the dessert menu is presented. She really doesn’t take much convincing though. The wine has made her feel a little lethargic and the chicken wasn’t anywhere near satisfying. Meat and cheese sounds pretty good right about now.

“Though, why the hell meat and cheese is a dessert is anyone’s guess,” he says.

“I think that’s just how they consider it in France.”

“But, it’s meat...and cheese. More wine?”

“Please.”

Mulder pours the remainder of the bottle of Merlot into her glass. “If you could go anywhere in the world, where would it be and why?”

“That’s an odd segue from meat and cheese.”

“I was just thinking about how I’d probably be run out of Paris for daring to eat my meat and cheese before dinner and wondering where else in the world I’d like to go. So, I’m wondering where you’d like to go.”

“You need my answer to formulate your answer?”

“Where you go, I go.” He smiles and swirls his wine a little. “Just wondering.”

“Ireland, I think.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“My father’s side of the family is Irish, though a few generations back. I think I’d like to see it for myself one day.”

“I took the ferry there a few times when I was at Oxford. The countryside is beautiful. I think you’d like it.”

“What about you?”

“Galapagos Islands.”

“The...really?” The answer surprises her.

“Yeah. it’s entirely possible I could meet a giant turtle that met Darwin. How cool would that be?”

“Pretty cool, actually.”

“And, of course, there’s the Monstro de Archipiélago de Colón to look for.”

“The what?”

“Galapagos Monster. It was first spotted in 1992, but there’s been an additional two sightings just a few years ago.”

Of course, she thinks. Of course.

*****

In Scully’s experience, the fancier a cheese is, the more unappetizing it appears, but as soon as the charcuterie board is placed before them, the smell of one of the three cheeses is overwhelmingly pungent and her eyes water in defense. Mulder is staring at the board with a look of skepticism she isn’t accustomed to.

“Here we have Roquefort,” the waiter points to a moldy blue cheese and continues down the line. “Camembert, and Epoisses. The meats are Capocollo, Soppressata, and Prosciutto.”

“Wanna take a bet on which one of these is the one that smells like the bottom of a dumpster on a hot day?” Mulder asks, as soon as the waiter is out of earshot.

She laughs and blinks the tears out of her eyes as she points to the moldy cheese at the end. Mulder takes a small piece off the corner of the cheese with his knife and brings it closer to his face. Tentatively, he takes the small bite off with his teeth.

“Nope,” he says. “It’s actually pretty decent.”

“Do you have any idea what the meats are?”

“I mean, I don’t know if all those words were French for salami and ham, but that’s kind of what they look like.”

She’s not uncultured, but there’s a reason she doesn’t like upscale places like this. They make her feel ignorant of basic things like meat and cheese. She takes a cut of the cheese Mulder tried and pairs it with the thin slice of curled meat that resembles salami and takes a bite.

“It’s good,” she agrees.

Mulder has continued with his cheese inspection and tested the Camembert. It’s the one cheese she’s familiar with. He nods approvingly and adds meat to a second bite, obviously a fan.

“That means,” he says as he wipes his mouth with his linen napkin, “through the process of elimination, that is the culprit.” He makes an accusatory stab at the last cheese with his knife and gives it a poke.

“Do you think it tastes as bad as it smells?”

“Only one way to find out.” He cuts into it and then brings the knife closer, but then turns his head and scrunches his face. “Jesus, we’ve been in morgues that have smelled better.”

“Don’t do it.”

“I have to solve this mystery, Scully, or I won’t sleep at night.”

She watches in horror as he quickly takes the cheese off the knife and then he puckers his mouth in distaste and swallows heavily. Immediately after, he drains the rest of his wine and then coughs lightly.

“Well?” she asks.

“If evil took a cheese form, it would be whatever that was.”

She chuckles as he pushes the cheese to the far side of the plate and then covers it with decorative sprig of parsley so they don’t have to look at it.

*****

“Will there be anything else?” the waiter asks.

“Scully? I think I saw chocolate mousse on the menu.”

“No, thank you.”

“Very well.” The waiter places the checkbook directly in front of Mulder and quickly retreats.

“Well, that was sexist,” Scully says.

Mulder shrugs. “Maybe it’s an old-fashioned assumption, but it is a date.” 

“Still.” She reaches for her purse, but Mulder puts a hand on her arm. 

“What’re you doing?” 

“We should split it.”

“It’s a date, Scully.”

“That doesn’t mean you should have to-”

“It does to me. I wanted to take you out. Let me take you out.”

“Technically, I asked you out.”

“No, I did. You just held me to it. You can get the next one if you’d like.”

She sucks in a breath. She hasn’t even considered a second date. Mulder swallows again like he did with the terrible cheese and so she relinquishes the hold on her purse and puts her hands in her lap. She thought this would be the end of things, that they just needed to satisfy the curiosity and then move on. 

Does he really want this? Does he want her? And, does she want this? Does she want him?

*****

It’s cooled down a little since they entered the restaurant, and Scully shivers as she steps out into the night air. Mulder has his jacket off almost instantaneously and slides it over her shoulders. She smiles at him and pulls it closed across her chest with one hand. He puts his hands in his pockets and falls into step beside her.

“There’s a 7-11 down that block,” he says, nodding to the left as they cross the street. “Want a hot dog?”

“A hot dog? Mulder, we just had dinner.”

“We had a baked parakeet and corpse cheese. I could go for a hot dog if you could.”

“I guess the portions were rather small.”

“Hot dog?”

“Sure.”

*****

They leave the 7-11 with one chili dog, for Mulder, and one plain hot dog, for her. Gentleman that he is, he lets her pay the $2.79. “See, I told you you can get the next one,” he says.

*****

At the sidewalk in front of her apartment, she gives him back his jacket, which he slips back on. They stand in front of each other, she with her eyes down and scuffing the toe of her shoe against the sidewalk.

“Well,” he says.

“Well.” She looks up at him and then sinks her teeth into her bottom lip.

“Please just tell me it wasn’t too terrible. That you’ll give this a second chance.”

“It was far from terrible, Mulder. But…”

“No, stop right there.” He puts a hand up to halt her. “No ‘but.’ I’ll take ‘far from terrible’ any day. The end.”

“But, I still don’t know if this is a good idea.”

He sighs and rocks back on his heels, tilting his head to look up at the night sky. His Adam’s apple bounces as he swallows and then he looks down at her and nods.

“Okay,” he says. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

She shakes her head a few times. He smiles ever so slightly and takes one hand out of his pocket. His fingers tickle her palm as he tries to hook his index finger around hers. When he finally does, he gives her a squeeze and swings their hands back and forth.

“Date’s not over until I walk you to your door though, right?”

“You really don’t have to-”

“I want to,” he says, cutting her off and giving her finger another squeeze. “Let me see it through.”

“Alright.”

His finger stays hooked with hers as he walks her up to the front door. Reluctantly, he lets her go so she can pull out her keys. They’re silent in the elevator and down the short hall to her door. She stops and turns to face him, but doesn’t look him in the eye.

“I just want you to know that I did have a nice time,” she says. “Despite...well, you know.”

“So did I.”

“You know, I think that part of it is just...it’s just that dating is such a difficult road to navigate.”

“How so?” He slouches with his back to the wall, head rolled towards her.

“Well, by and large it’s based on false pretenses. This really isn’t us, is it?” She makes a gesture towards the dress she’s wearing and looks down at her feet. “And that restaurant?”

“A little pretentious.”

“Wouldn’t you have much rather just been at home with a pizza and a beer?”

“Alone? Or with you.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I grant you that aspects of it are...awkward. But, I disagree that it’s false or that either of us were disingenuous. Isn’t it just about putting your best foot forward and hoping the other person sees enough good there to want to know you better?”

“I already know you, Mulder.”

“I guess I’m pretty lucky then. You’re still here and I wasn’t even trying to impress you.”

“You weren’t?”

“Well, maybe a little.”

She finally glances up at him and meets his eyes. He gives her a smile and then she drops her gaze again. She takes a deep breath. “There are just so many reasons why it-”

He doesn’t let her get any farther than that. Swiftly, but gently, he takes her face in his hands and cuts off her protests with a kiss. She’s stunned by it, but not unwelcoming, even grabs on to the lapels of his jacket as though she’s trying to bring him closer.

He smiles and she makes a tiny noise of protest so he presses her into the door as he slips his tongue past her slightly parted lips. She tugs roughly on his jacket as she shifts her feet, whimpering into his mouth. He can feel the heat of her cheeks under his hands. 

Rubbing the apples of her cheeks, he breaks their kiss, only to slant his head to the other side and start another. He goes deeper this time and leans into it so his chest pushes into hers and takes her breath away. 

When he pulls back, her eyes are closed and her breasts heave against his chest. He leans back in to drag his bottom lip across her mouth once, twice, and then he softly kisses the curve of her upper lip before moving back. He traces her mouth with both thumbs until she opens her eyes and holds his gaze. She looks like she’s just woken from a wonderful dream and he can’t help the dopey grin that spreads across his face.

“You just keep saying we shouldn't,” he whispers, sliding his hands back to rub her earlobes between his thumbs and index fingers. Her eyelids droop. “Not that you don’t want to. And if you tell me you don’t see me the way I see you well then...”

“How do you see me?”

He doesn’t answer, just pierces her with an unwavering gaze that has her knees shaking and makes her feel absolutely liquefied. The love and desire she sees in his eyes almost seems tangible, like she can pluck it from the air and hold it in her hands. 

He blinks languidly and then stands a little taller, his hands slipping away from her face. It takes her a few beats, but she slowly opens her hands and lets go of his jacket.

“Good night, Scully.”

His voice gives her a little jolt and tilts her head like she doesn’t understand what he’s said. He chuckles and shoves his hands in his pockets as he retreats, moving to the stairwell instead of the elevator. When he looks back, she’s leaning against the door, lightly stroking her bottom lip with her index finger.

“Hey,” he says, and she drops her hand and turns her head towards him. “Told you I was a good kisser.”

The End


End file.
